


It Started with a Chair

by hello_imasalesman



Series: The Las Venturas Job [2]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ten years had passed, and a tattoo, and a good amount of hair between them, but Trevor still seemed to slot so easily into Michael’s lap.” What happened in Sandy Shores. Part of <i>The Las Venturas Job</i> but not necessary to have read it before reading this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Started with a Chair

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I haven't been posting much in this fandom lately. Hope you enjoy.

It’s hot. The kind of hot that’s pulling not just gallons of water via sweat through Michael’s skin, but all the impurities and sin along with it. Michael realizes, in a way, why so many other rich, middle-aged pudgy fucks pay good money to go to saunas: he understands the scenes in movies, usually protagonist mobsters, sitting in sweat lodges with their prodigal sons. He _understands_ why they want to feel buckets of perspiration drip from top to taint in a room, but the heat is too much for him. He went once, at a neighbor’s behest, and never went again; the heat, and the droning of dull Los Santos conversation in his ear almost gave him an aneurysm. 

_Top to taint,_ Michael thinks crudely as he melts back into the scratchy fabric of the armchair, grabs for his balls to adjust them sticking to his thigh. Wasn’t that a Trevor Philips special. He’s been forced to stay in close contact and watch the other man for weeks, grabbing his crotch, openly fondling, shitting with the door open, spitting on the floor—

He can’t remember if it had always been like this, if he had always held such a distaste for Trevor. If Trevor had always been so vile, or if maybe he had grown out of that after they had parted. (No, Amanda yelled at him too often about being pig-headed and vile.) But _vile_ isn’t the beginning of it, barely scratches the surface; he doesn’t remember Trevor being the same brand of crazy he is now, either, especially when he’s awoken in the middle of the night from a fitful, sweaty sleep on the couch by the bang of the trailer door opening up, heavy breathing, yellow eyes glowing—the acrid smell of tar. 

There’s something very different, now. After moving away from North Yankton, to the warm, balmy weather of Los Santos where heavy clothes were worn for fashion instead of warmth, even he could admit the man was transformed in his mind. Trevor had always been much nastier in thought than reality. If he hadn’t transfigured him, the guilt would have eaten him alive; so he replaced Trevor with something more feared, nastier, a boogeyman that could harm him. Pangs of nostalgia occasionally ate at his gut when some idiotic neighbor asked if he wanted to play tennis and drink kale smoothies together; but he pushed it down, and away.

Trevor bounding into the room with a six-pack. The two of them sitting side-by-side at a bar, heckling a red-faced Lester. Trevor’s eyes meeting his across the room at the strip club, piercing through the silhouettes of soft curves and jutting poles. 

But he was _dangerous_.

Michael could laugh at his past self; he was even more pig-headed, more selfish than he was now. It’s almost silly to think that Trevor was dangerous to him at the time, following him blindly. Michael takes a sip of lukewarm beer.

This is a different Trevor, entirely. He sees glimpses of the old him, in the watery stare he fixed on him when he interrupted his fight with his wife and yogi, the fierce sense of protectiveness towards Tracey, or the way he could down half a bottle in one swig, lips hugging tight to the neck. But now, he’s an entirely different thing altogether; like an animal gone feral, left to overgrow with weeds without the tending and guidance of someone else. Overgrown, yet Michael would swear the earth had been salted irreparably.

Maybe it was living out here for so many years that had changed Trevor. There’s something about the desert. The beautiful Alamo Sea, the advertisements said. Michael now realizes why all of the advertisements seemed to be over the radio and not on television; Alamo Sea, and Blaine County, were not beautiful at all. (In fact, it reminded him of home a bit, which made his teeth ache.) It was desolate; even the places that were occupied were desolate of any “real” life that Michael considered of any worth. Redneck meth-dealing hicks, non-functioning alcoholics sitting on decrepit trailer porches, wild animals that ran with tails-tucked away from the roads but yowled restlessly during the night. Trevor calls Rockford Hills fake, but Michael can’t see the appeal of Sandy Shores. Is it too _real_? No—it’s just dirty, fetid and dry. 

 

The crickets were out tonight. T had missed the crickets, being in Los Santos. The sounds of Los Santos made him restless. All cities did. Sure, it was fun at first, it was new. Floyd was like Wade, in the feel of his skin underneath his own rough hands, and they both constantly reeked of a similar stench of fear, but Trevor had less compassion for him. Wade would cry and, eventually, T would extend a gracious hand to soothe the dreadlocks over the juggalo’s thick skull. But Floyd didn’t stir any emotion stronger than mild disgust. Like most weak, simpering things, he wanted to crush it once the buzzing got to loud under the heel of his boot.

He missed Blaine County. It was a shame the only way Michael would visit was due to impending and immediate gang violence if he ventured into Los Santos proper. Michael is mad at him- Michael is _furious_. He hates it here, and it’s not just obvious in the way he stomps through his 10 square feet of trailer or the constant bulging veins across the furrows of his brow; he even seems to _sweat_ furiously. But Michael vocalizes it to Trevor often. He hates the locals. He hates the crickets. He hates the wailing of the coyotes, the incessant baying of the dogs.

He doesn’t vocalize it, but Trevor’s sure that Michael hates him, too.

Michael doesn’t turn at the sound of the screen door banging closed; instead, he turns his face upward, towards the sky, and lets his eyes slide shut.

T’s feet fall heavily against the porch as the door clangs behind him. It’s past midnight; Patricia is tucked into bed, and though in a perfect world he would also be there, with the warm comfort of someone more willing than a shivering Wade, Trevor wasn’t tired. He didn’t sleep like that, not the quaintly domestic 10PM to 6AM routine she kept. After a few hours of mindless television and a few beers later, his skin was itching. He approaches the table, and takes the soaked ring in hand. It’s halfway to his face when his eye catches Michael’s form. The street lamp a few yards away throws a strange light over him on the recliner. He looks both magnificent and disgusting all at once; Michael Townley, sitting on a rat-infested recliner, sweating to death, with face turned skyward. There’s something statuesque about his stance, a modern repose, his hands clutching the arms of the recliner.

Trevor drops the gasoline with a quiet thump, his eyes not moving away from Michael. Yes, Michael Townley, even. It is a strange enough lighting that his brow seems smoothed over, years buffered away. If Trevor crosses his eyes when he raises the bottle in his hand to his lips he can almost see it. The collar of his jacket pulled up high to protect his neck from the wind, ruddy cheeks, those piercing blue eyes. Michael fucking Townley. Holding a gun, shoulder checking a security guard like he was out on the field that decimate his kneecap and made him bitch when it got too cold, thick hands with even thicker fingers.

Hanging from the rafter a tatty dream catcher sways momentarily in what could be mistaken as a breeze; Trevor watches Michael stir as if to catch it, if only for a second. He takes the steps down onto the dirt and sparse pieces of grass that make up his lawn.

 

 

“Trev,” Michael wearily peels his eyes open, his voice haggard and presuming, “Look, I’m just out here, tryin’ to get some space. “ Trevor circles around Michael; instead of following him with his head or eyes, he closes them to sigh. “I’m sure I won’t wake up with rats peeling the skin off of me or end up as cougar dinner, but even if I do—“ The sigh that escapes him is overwrought, even for Michael, “At this point, I’d be okay with that.”

Trevor’s shin presses lightly against Michael’s leg; his eyes snap open. He hadn’t realized how closely the other had moved to him, not with his eyes closed and a general air of malaise. He searches the face of the other man.

Trevor’s impassive. Before Michael can say something quippy, he raises his leg up and settles a knee to one side of Michael’s torso. And then, the other settles between Michael’s widely spread legs, his knee against his groin. Michael is having strange feelings of déjà vu. Of strippers who straddle velvet back-room couches, of seedy hookers with stocking-clad legs in the backseat of his car. Except, it’s Trevor Philips, straddling his body on a recliner in the middle of the Senora Desert. The heat of his body is felt more strongly through those sweatpants of his than he swears any bare skin would conduct.

“T,” He manages to croak out, his eyes searching Trevor’s face; the other man glances back, tongue darting nervously between his lips. “What the hell?”

And then there’s another sense of déjà vu, much less recent than the others. Trevor’s eyes meeting his across the room at the strip club, piercing through the silhouettes of soft curves and jutting poles—and then suddenly, Michael’s sitting on a filthy toilet and Trevor is straddling his waist. The celebration of having just enough money to get a motel room with a chair, because at that point in time that was their measure of success, and they get drunk and Trevor, somehow, thinks it’s a good idea to give Michael a striptease (but, it’s ok, they’re drunk, they say, even though their dicks still work perfectly fine and their eyes are too sharp). 

“God, Mikey, I can barely put a leg here. When’d you get so _fat_?” Trevor sneers, but as the sentence ends the crickets and the faint sound of faraway cars on the freeway resume and the silence between them is deafening. They’re staring at each other now. His heart is beating. His blood is thrumming. He hasn’t been like this in some time.

Literally, he hasn’t been in Michael’s lap in some time. Years. A decade. And yet—

His eyes move down to Michael’s neck, where his adam’s apple bobs under stubble that’s a few hours away from being considered slovenly as he swallows. “I’m serious, T. What the fuck are you doing? You can’t let me have this one god damn chair?”

The hands at his side curl into fists, idly; Michael’s eyes shift from the implicit threat, back to Trevor’s face. Trevor’s lips curl back to reveal his teeth. “You scared, porkchop?”

That gets Michael’s hackles up—“I’m not scared of you, asshole,” He leans up in his chair, admittedly struggling just the slightest to shift his weight up and forward; Trevor refuses to budge, even as Michael gestures sweepingly with one hand. “You’re a fucking psychotic hillbilly fuck, though, and I’m tired of staying in this hell hole because you wanna play some twisted, sick version of house!”

Trevor swallows thickly. He startles, almost, eyes widening and his body leaning back, voice lowering. “Go home then, Mikey. Go back to your big, empty fuckin’ house.” He laughs, all teeth, with little mirth to go around. Michael’s frown deepens; he’s simmering just under the surface, his fingers gripping at the arms of the recliner.

“I can’t fuckin’ go home, not without getting shot in the ass.”

“You’ve survived one death. What’s another?”

Trevor’s knee on the armchair shifts, to press warm and firm against Michael’s thigh. Michael’s hand shoots up; panic flares in his stomach.

His hand reaches out; not to hurt, to lash out, but to curl themselves in the wisps of hair Trevor still cultivates on his head, to scratch his nails against his scalp and find bodily purchase. He gives Trevor’s hair an angry tug and the other man acquiesces and moves towards the source of the pulling pain, growling like a wounded animal in reply.

In the distance, a coyote replies, which they both ignore.

“Why’d you come out here, huh?”

Trevor’s voice rises above Michael’s barely contained shout, “This is my home—Casa de Philips, Philips Bungalow—and you got the stones to ask why I’m outside?”

Trevor’s tongue darts out to wet his barely parted lips. Michael releases his grip, and when Trevor pulls back he shakes his head like a wet dog. He stumbles back, surveying Michael’s sweating form momentarily before turning on his heel and stomping back up the steps of his trailer porch.

The screen door slams shut behind him, much too loudly; he’s sure he’s awakened Patricia, and now he’s even angrier at Michael, for doing that to her. Wants to rend him in two, wants to—

He is scared. _He is scared._ Trevor saw it in his eyes. He’s pacing the small space of his trailer, and suddenly everything is too hot; he wrestles his shirt off, tears the neck of it a little in his struggle, and throws it away in a fit. It lands in the kitchen sink, immediately soaking up the mold and standing water of the dirty basin. Michael has been scared of him since he let himself into his McMansion over in Rockford Hills, ever since the fat fuck took that half step between him and his fat son. As if Michael was stronger than Trevor. As if Trevor could have ever harmed something that had Townley blood in its veins.

The screen door slams again. Trevor’s feet barely touch the stairs.

“Jesus Christ, T.” Michael groans, “Just leave me the fuck alone—“

“Or what?” Trevor’s body is fluid as he stalks forward, muscles twitching underneath taut skin stretched with misuse and age and drugs. He has tract marks and scars, burns on his torso from bad meth batches. Michael’s eyes scan his body; he can smell his fear. It stinks. They are children, taunting each other, goading and baiting: “ _Or what_ , Mikey?”

Michael starts to rise from the recliner, like some beast who had its slumber disturbed; the motion is embarrassingly slow, and belies his age as he has to brace his hands against the arms of the chair. “I don’t have to fuckin’ deal with this. Look, if you keep—“

Neither of them expect Trevor to push Michael back into the seat. The other man’s eyes are wide, shock clearly visible. Trevor’s knee is between Michael’s legs again. He leans down, spitting, snarling:

“Or what?”

It’s _real_. Years after the cold has left his body, years since he’s been in North Yankton, and traveled south and west, and here the long dead Michael Townley is resurrected underneath him.

Their teeth make contact with each other, first, wolves clashing maw to maw. Michael makes a strangled noise against Trevor’s lips and he’s suddenly pushing forward, his tongue pushing between his lips. Trevor takes him eagerly, parts his mouth to allow unabashed entry and sucks on Michael’s tongue. His fingers momentarily tighten against Trevor’s scalp, and dig into the flesh there. He can feel little half-moon indents where his fingernails are biting into, and Trevor relishes the pain, pushes closer.

It’s too hard to lean over, so Trevor sits on Michael’s lap, his ass greedily grinding down onto Michael’s erection. He’s sure the man’s had it since he had come out the first time; that’s Townley for you, good old Michael Townley.

A car drives past, and blows through the stop sign. Neither of them notice.

Trevor’s bare, sweat-slicked torso is making Michael’s now-dingy polo cling to him. Trevor fingers the hem, sucking on his bottom lip, but Michael bats his hand away to reach for the belt that barely holds up Trevor’s second-hand cargo shorts on the man’s bony waist. It comes off with a loud clatter, and Michael pulls it out of the loops to throw onto the ground.

Trevor finally breaks their voracious kissing to laugh against his lips, “You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”

Michael grunts, leaning back as Trevor’s hands creep underneath his shirt. “Shut up,” He hisses, breath hitching as Trevor’s nails scrape bluntly down his chest. His voice has lowered an octave, thick with want as he brusquely pulls down Trevor’s shorts. “m’ gonna—“

“What, Townley?”

“Don’t interrupt me. Don’t call me– I’m going to—“ He pauses, unsure, suddenly. Not of his actions, no. He knows what he wants to do, but how he’s going to go about it is alluding him.

He’s trying not to think. Everything is happening so fast, and if he thinks—he might realize how terrible of an idea this is. He sticks two of his thick fingers into his own mouth, and any words or noises Trevor had been making die off at the sight. 

That was the way to go about it. He gropes at Trevor’s ass; the other man suddenly shudders. Michael knows his fingers aren’t wet enough, but he doesn’t particularly want to wait and he knows—he remembers—Trevor never seemed to particularly care.

Michael lifts Trevor’s ass slightly off his lap, and Trevor leans forward, his mouth somewhere near Michael’s ear, unsteadily puffing out small growls and gasps as he works a finger into Trevor’s ass. Michael can’t quite believe this is happening, not right here, not right now. He’s sitting outside next to a common road, for fuck’s sake, knuckles deep into a writhing meth head’s asshole. First one finger, then two– two knuckles that are working Trevor open for all he’s worth, pumping in, pulling out, taking their sweet time. Trevor growls and arches his back–

And he’s not used to this, not at all, Michael Townley, beautiful, perfect, Michael Townley—was an asshole. This Michael is looking up at him, with his watery eyes lined with age, and there’s a hand on his hip, his thumb rubbing at the skin there almost calmingly as he pushes fingers into him, again and again. When he presses his face into the skin of Trevor’s neck, Trevor nearly jolts off of his lap from the shock. “The fuck are you doing, Townley?” He says the name as if it will invoke spirits; Michael himself pulls his face away, his own cheeks red.

“I just… Christ, T.” He mutters, his fingers speeding up, and Trevor has to bite his lip hard to stifle a strange noise that wells up in him when the defensive jerk of his fingers hits something. His extra hand goes from rubbing circles to his cock, businesslike in his drive to make Trevor unravel. “You always gotta make shit problematic, huhn?”

He does it again. Trevor bites down harder. He can taste his own blood. His eyes avoid Michael’s face. “I ain’t—I ain’t makin’ shit problematic.” His voice warbles, stupidly: “This is _different_.”

Michael pushes in that same spot, again, and again, ruthless. T grapples Michael’s shoulders to keep from falling and his eyes finally focus on his face. He’s watching him; any noises in his throat die out. He’s sure it’s the opposite of what Michael wants, if the sheer concentration in his movement to hammer on his prostate and the sheen of sweat on his brow speaks of anything, but—

Michael’s eyes dilate. He leans in, closes the gap in between them, (The part of his mind not addled with lust is screaming, you fucking idiot, he’s bleeding, God knows what you’re going to catch now–) and catches his mouth in another kiss. Trevor’s movements are sudden but fluid; he reaches for the front of Michael’s pants, cupping his straining erection and palming the warmth. Michael’s never been vocal, but Trevor is completely fine to be rewarded with that sharp intake of air that he hasn’t heard in a decade. He undoes the button, slides the zipper down, and—

“Do you have lube?”

Trevor’s yellow eyes simply stare at Michael; he shuts his mouth. The other man slides off of Michael; his fingers slide out of the other man as he kneels in front of him, in the dirt. He nearly grabs Trevor by the hair with the hand that is wet with saliva, but at the last moment switches; he twists his fingers into the wisps there, invoking memories of mullets and a better hairline through his fingertips as he lowers Trevor’s awaiting mouth onto his cock.

It’s not a blowjob. Trevor’s trying to transfer as much saliva and moisture as he can onto Michael in a short of a time period as possible, gagging around Michael’s impatient thrusts. He needs—wants this. Trevor needs to feel Michael bury himself in him, pain or not, before everything dissipates before his eyes. Before he realizes this had been a gasoline-induced dream, and he wakes up naked and wet in a cow pasture.

Trevor pulls off of his cock with a wet sound and a thick string of saliva traveling from the bottom of his lip to the head of his cock.

Though Trevor sinks down with little fanfare and Michael’s only blinding thought was more, months after Sandy Shores, after he finds out what happened with Brad, and they do the Big One, and everything goes to shit again, Trevor thinks of this moment with all of the adoration and hero-worship in the world. Remembers it as soft and gentle, yet rough and strong, remembers it as Michael Townley incarnate, like North Yankton but the memory less frayed by time.

He’s not too far off. Michael’s not the same man as he was when he was younger; just as selfish, but in a different way, and his ego, still wide and vast, has dried up. Trevor burying himself to the hilt on his cock is filling him back up to the waterline, and he pulls Trevor in close, and presses his face to his neck again.

Trevor chokes; this time, he doesn’t protest.

“Fuck, fuck—“

Michael digs his heels into the ground a little harder, to give himself leverage and thrust up into Trevor. He’s not the same young man he used to be—and, to be honest, he’s amazed with his boner for getting hard in the first place a few beers into the night, let alone the rest of his out of shape body. He wants more than he can give. He wants to—he wants to be on a hard surface. A table. He wants to be in a bed. He wants Trevor bent over so he can hammer into him, he wants Trevor to ride him, he wants, he wants—

And _yet_.

One hand cups the back of Trevor’s skull, and the other grabs his waist to help move the man’s undulations on his lap. His ministrations on Trevor’s neck are sloppy, kissing and biting, scraping teeth down quivering tendons and over his adam’s apple. 

“Fuck, M, M, M, M—“

Trevor recites the letter over, and over, until it loses all meaning in his mouth. Michael can hear his name vibrating through his throat. It has been years since Trevor has been fucked. He pushes his body down to meet Michael’s thrusts, one leg on the ground to help his push, his thighs burning. He pulls back to get his positioning right, forgoing the foreign sweetness of their closeness to get them over the edge. A part of him wants to bury his face into Michael’s neck and inhale, but he doesn’t want to miss a moment of this. He’s not sure it will ever happen again, and he’d never forgive himself if he missed his climax.

Though it’s been years, T knows the signs; he reaches down, taking himself in hand to jerk his cock wildly. Michael’s eyes flit downward and go wide. He can’t even pretend it doesn’t turn him on; the sight of Trevor so filthy, so wonton, screaming his name out in the open for the coyotes and rednecks to hear, for little old Patricia Madrazo and that annoying Ron Jakowski to hear and see through parted blinds. The want is so raw, compared to the manufactured want of a hooker or his own wife, and makes him immediately tip over the edge.

Trevor chokes out a strange noise that Michael couldn’t, and did not, want to comprehend; he spills his load when Michael curls a hand over his. His hips slowed, but didn’t still. Sweat drips down the curve of Trevor’s back, and mercifully, a desert breeze blows by to whisk it off.

Michael’s hips don’t stop until Trevor presses a hand to his chest; he climbs off, shakily, joints popping and protesting urgently at the sudden change of position. He almost stumbles over the shorts that are around his ankles, and he leans down to pull them up and over his ass. He leans down, grabbing Michael’s half-spilt forgotten beer that’s gathered desert sand on the rim. He wipes it off with his wrist, and after taking a swig passes it to the boneless man on his outdoor recliner. The street lamp a few yards away throws a strange light over them; for a moment, everything almost looks alright.


End file.
